


lunae illuminatus

by saernamaz



Series: Lamen Week 2020 [4]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Lamen Week 2020, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Wakes & Funerals, actually, and so is laurent >:(, i love orlant ok im still not over him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: Some wounds cannot be seen, cannot heal with potions and lotions. Grief, weakness, abuse. Laurent has had a lifetime of them.His salvation came in the night, bathed in moonlight, warm and safe.(Lamen Week 2020, Day 4: Wounds)
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Lamen Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798330
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21
Collections: Lamen Week 2020





	lunae illuminatus

**Author's Note:**

> please bear w me for the latin in the title, i forgot all about it in 3 months lmaooo
> 
> anyway,,, angst time again babeyyyy
> 
> it wasn't my original idea nor draft but uhh my precedent idea sucked sooo bad 😭 it was the shame of my career

His heart tightened in his chest as he watched the fire slowly start to die down. In comparison, their torches burned brightly in the cold of the evening’s soft hues. He promised himself that he would not loose his composure in front of the other men present, members of his personal guard, trusty men but who still saw him as the child he had been. They could cry, like Jord did behind his hand or like Huet was doing, as he started to retreat from the pile of ashes that had become Orlant. Neither of them believed him a traitor, but for apparence’s sakes, to fid whoever the mole was, they publicly nominated him as one. Their grief had to be a secret, the religious ceremony hidden to the rest, until truth was revealed.

Their make-shift ceremony came to an end as all the men started to slowly follow Huet’s exemple and leave the ashes to combine once again with the sullied wood and the dirty earth beneath their feet. Jord was the last to leave, glancing his way for a moment, before knowing better than to interrupt him in a fool mood. And they needed to prepare for the fight that would ultimately come their way in the hills of Nelson. He needed to as well.

The creak of the branches beneath his boots were the only sound grounding him to reality, preventing his thoughts to go back to Orlant, impossible, reckless and crude Orlant, who had been one of the first soldier he had recruited in his embryo of a guard, and who had known him as a child when he was still in the main army and witnessed him grow. Who had made allusions to the truth more than once, cunning and lucid as he was, and who despite his lewd comments, had always respected and understood Laurent, only playing the part that was expected of him as one of his soldier and getting on his nerves to distract his anger momentarily.

He opened the flap of his tent and sat down on his bed, flush with silks and soft pillows, letting the dark engulf him. He stayed there to catch his breath, which was shallow and shaky. He was grieving all over again, and it was irremissible to him. He wanted to chastise himself for it, but the anxiety creeping in his throat prevented him from forming any coherent thoughts again. He found it ironic, how death was the only thing that made him loose focus. He let tears fall from his eyes, sobbing in silence, as the men outside shouted to hurry and clean the remnant of the insurgence, to prepare to ride.

A ray of light penetrated the tent, and he heard familiar deaf footsteps approach. Damen’s voice called out to him, and Laurent panicked. He had always told himself not to appear weak to anyone, and the consecration would be for him to show any weakness to Damianos. Except that he had, in the inn, each time he had slipped during the trip to Nelson. Damen pretended not to notice, but Laurent was sure that he had, and had simply not commented further. Still, he dried his tears and cleared his throat as Damen advanced to the bedroom area. The halo of light behind him made him look like a god in the night, his face neutral and body relaxed despite the tense evening. His eyes narrowed as they fell on Laurent, and the prince straightened under his companion’s gaze.

“Your Highness,” he said, confused. “Are you alright?”

“I am.” His throat felt sore. “Now hurry and let’s pack.”

Damen stayed immobile as he stood up, warm eyes glued to his face. He reached a tentative hand, before letting it fall. _As he should_ , Laurent thought. The lightness of the inn had passed, replaced by the heavy realization of betrayal and war. Damianos was not the kind slave disguised as a benevolent patron, was not the man who had brought him a meal and had listened to him in the fire lit cozy room anymore. The grave atmosphere made him into what he really was, a commander, an imposing figure who stood atop hills and directed troops. Who had killed Auguste.

The realization did not hurt in the way it should have, the way it hurt before.

“Lau— Your Highness, if I may…”

He spoke before he had any time to think this through. “You may speak.”

“Were you crying?”

The question hang in the air between them. Admitting he was crying would be admitting affection. Admitting he was crying was admitting he was not the stone cold bitch his people made him to be. He needed the mantel, he needed the assurance that came with the nickname, not to let his walls crumble in front of the enemy, as innocent as he looked. _The world is your enemy_ , he told himself. And yet, a part of him craved to scream at the top of his lungs that he was just a child in need of guidance, a guidance that had been so viciously taken from him. He longed to bury himself in the other man’s arms and cry his heart out, to trust him enough to do that. The previous days were weighting on him, moments were Damen revealed himself a friend and a comforting presence, understanding and simple. _Auguste was like you_.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice flat as he fixed the man bathing in the moonlight.

“Can I ask why?”

“I was grieving, again,” he said without a pause for reflection.

“Was it for Orlant?”

“Yes.”

Damen did not say anything else. He stepped closer and gave Laurent a sympathetic smile. He knew Orlant had been part of his guard, had witnessed his peculiar sense of duty and protection toward him, had seen his skills in battle, and perhaps he grieved him too on behalf of the men who did not and thought him a traitor, or for Laurent. One of his broad hand reached his right shoulder. The warmth of it sent shivers down Laurent’s very core. He leaned into the contact, the timid comfort, and closed the distance between them. He heard his barbarian draw a shuddered breath as his head met his chest and his arms wrapped around his torso. Damen embraced him back without a word. Lost in their own world, reality seemed far away. Laurent could only press into the comfort of the large silhouette around him, shielding him from the torments that tortured him a moment ago, and promised safety. He came to realize that it was the first genuine hug he had ever received in the last seven years.

He pressed his palms against Damn’s back, wanting to be flush against him for a moment more. He could not feel them, nor see them, but he knew that the wounds of the lash were here, beneath his fingers, an invisible pain he had inflicted him. They were probably healing, slowly but surely, thanks to Paschal’s ministrations.

He would heal too, he thought, as long as Damen held him.

**Author's Note:**

> laurent has a c r u s h


End file.
